


every demon wants his pound of flesh

by Athina_Blaine



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, only sexy vampires allowed in this household, worm tongue free zone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-06-02
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:53:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24146194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Athina_Blaine/pseuds/Athina_Blaine
Summary: Martin’s eyes trailed the veins of Jon’s neck. He kissed the soft skin over his pulse.Then he bit down.Jon cried out and jerked away. Martin blinked, then slapped his hand over his mouth.-Martin is a vampire now. It isn't great. Jon tries to help.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 256
Kudos: 777





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place during a nebulous time frame, which basically means I did a Frankenstein and pulled out and put together various set pieces I wanted from different seasons. 
> 
> Enjoy!

The vampire jolted up. At the end of the rain-soaked alley were two more like him. Their eyes were glinting, mouths grim.

Abandoning his meal, the vampire fled. His assailers followed, splashing through the puddles of murky water. Pedestrians walked by, but they saw, or either chose to see, nothing. The rain continued pouring down, pools of blood swirling into the gutter.

A crow fluttered down into the alley. Now that the creepy bipedal was gone, she could continue hunting for materials to add to her nest. She was a clever crow, so she thought. Since none of the other crows would bother to come out on a night like this, the crow, in all her wisdom, would get first pick at the loot.

An odd shape was collapsed in the centre of the alley, half hidden in shadow. The crow gave it an investigatory peck. Another bipedal? How obnoxious. She had thought they were all gone.

But, wait. This bipedal was wearing _shoes_. And _shoes_ meant _shoestrings_.

How fortuitous. The crow’s resolve was already paying off.

As the crow tugged at the shoestrings, a loud musical note rang out. She squawked with surprise and hopped away.

The bipedal had moaned.

The crow waited. Curious, the crow thought. She had been fairly certain the thing was dead. She supposed it was on its last legs, at the very least. The body didn’t do anything else after that. Cautious, she leaned closer, and gave the string a good tug.

Nothing.

Emboldened, the crow continued to pull and tug until she got one string loose. Success.

Another musical note. The bipedal’s fingers twitched.

The crow squawked again, but this time with annoyance. Couldn’t the thing make a decision already?

Like a lumbering giant with the weight of the ocean pushing it down, the bipedal dragged its crooked arm closer to its body and, with a grunt, pushed itself up.

Usually, the crow would feel threatened by now and flee, but the bipedal had clearly been weakened in the earlier altercation, and she had always been a bit curious about the featherless creatures that created so many wonderful nesting materials. She hopped as close as she dared, leaning in to get a look at the face.

It was pale, even the crow could tell it was a sickly colour, and its eyes were sightless. Through its neck was a terrible wound that would be overflowing with blood if the rain had not already done its part to wash it away. The sight was deeply upsetting, and the crow crooned. Poor thing.

The eyes blinked. They looked.

They saw the crow.

And suddenly, the crow was afraid.

She tried to fly but a hand, too quick, snatched her out of the air, and a mouth, too strong, bit her neck, and it was over.

It drank and it drank and it drank until there was nothing left. The carcass slipped through its fingers. It looked around, wondering where it was, what it was doing here, what even was it?

Home.

Yes.

He had been on his way home and then …

Well. He must have fallen, or something.

Leaning against the wet brick wall, he pushed himself onto his feet, trembling. The world fell to one side, and then the other, but he stood. One hand on the wall, the other clutching his positively _aching_ neck (Jesus, did he fall on a rock?), he crept his way towards the street. Nobody noticed him, but that was okay. He wanted to be ignored right now.

He stumbled through the familiar route back home. By the time he unlocked his door and shuffled into his bedroom, trailing thick, oozing mud behind him, the only thing he could do was collapse into bed, still wearing his shoes and soaking his sheets clear through with rain water.

In his pocket, just this side of waterlogged, his phone screen was still turned on and, should there have happened to have been any watchful voyeurs lurking nearby, one could see it was opened to a conversation with a J. Sims.

_> It’s dreadful out tonight_

_> Let me know when you make it home_


	2. Chapter 2

Martin’s phone was ringing. For how long? A fog in his head made it hard to remember.

He reached down for his phone and groaned. Every bone and sinew sang with a dull ache, and his heavy body wanted to sink away into the mattress. His stomach throbbed with hunger. Hadn’t he eaten with Jon at the Institute last night? And, god, why was he so _damp?_

With a weak hand, he brought his phone to his face.

_> WHERE ARE YOU???_

What’s that all about? Martin checked the time.

2:26 PM.

He was over _six hours_ late to work.

Martin scrambled out of bed, but nausea rolled over him, nearly spinning him into the carpet. _Shit_. He grabbed his phone and made a call.

“Jon—”

“Where the _hell_ have you been?”

Oh, he sounded so mad. “Nowhere! I mean, I’ve just been in bed. I didn’t realize I slept in so late.”

“You _slept in?_ ”

“I don’t know.” He struggled out of his crusty clothes from last night. Christ, _why_ hadn’t he taken a shower? Or even changed? “I guess I caught a bug or something in the storm last night. I’m on my way now.”

A long sigh breathed into his ear as Martin pulled together an outfit at random. “Okay. Well. I’m glad you’re safe. I’ve been worried sick.”

“I’m sorry, Jon. It was an accident.” Martin tossed a slice of bread into the toaster. “I’ll see you at work.”

He hung up and watched as the bread cooked. A chill cut through him and he wrapped his arms around himself. He was wearing a shirt, a vest, and one of his fuzziest jumpers, and it’s not like he had an AC unit or anything; how could he be so freezing?

When the toast popped up, Martin scraped a thin layer of butter on it and hurried out of his flat.

Reaching the pavement, he lifted the toast and bit down and regretted it.

His stomach lurched and he clapped a hand over his mouth, doubling over. He swallowed, and he swallowed again, until at last he choked it down. Another lurch, this one nearly forcing him to his knees.

Shaking, he straightened up, one hand clutching the fence. Was this the bug? How could he already be this bad? He'd been fine eating chicken with Jon last night.

Raising the piece of toast, he brought it to his mouth and then flinched away. The smell was awful, dashing any hope there could of him being able to swallow down a second bite.

He tossed it into the bin. Readjusting his bag strap, he continued sprinting to the Institute. He tripped over his loosened shoelace and bit the pavement.

A perfect start to a perfect day.

Wiping his face, he clambered to his feet and kept running with only the barest hint of a limp.

“Well, well, look who finally decided to show up.”

Melanie smirked as Martin slumped against the doorway of the assistant’s office. In his head, he prepared a witty, scathing retort, but couldn’t get it through his overworked lungs. He fluttered a hand around instead.

“So, what was it? Pulled an all-nighter and forget to set your alarm?”

Martin staggered to his desk and dumped his bag. The bite of toast sat heavy in his stomach. He swore he could feel it rattling around, like a rock in a pail.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“Yeah. Sure. That’s why it looks like you’re about to decorate the desk with your breakfast.”

“Skipped breakfast. Think I caught something in that storm last night.” His stomach gurgled, desperate for food and repelled by the thought at the same time. “You ever get so hungry you can’t even eat?”

Melanie’s mouth twisted in sympathy, but just then, Jon appeared in the doorway.

“Martin. My office, now.”

His voice dripped with cold fury, and he left as quickly as he appeared. If Martin had any hope of getting through this without Jon losing his head, it was gone now.

“He’s gonna kill you,” said Melanie in a voice far too delighted for the words being said.

Well. At least someone was having fun in all this.

Jon was waiting for him in his office, and once Martin was inside, he slammed the door shut.

“What the hell happened to you last night?”

Then his eyes landed on Martin’s face and they softened, just a touch.

“You look terrible.”

“Well, it’s not an act, if that’s what you were wondering.”

“It wasn’t.” Jon put a hand to Martin’s forehead. “No fever.” He slid his fingers down Martin’s cheek. “You’re freezing, if anything.”

Martin shrugged, distracted by the warmth of Jon’s hand.

“Martin, you should have told me you were this far gone. I would have insisted you stayed home.”

“M’fine.” He took Jon’s hand and squeezed it gently. “I’ll feel better once I’ve gotten something to eat.”

“I see.”

Jon wrapped his arms around Martin and held him close. Martin dropped his head on Jon’s shoulder, breathing him in. His eyes fluttered shut. Jon always smelled so nice. Martin needed to start nicking his shampoo again.

“I shouldn't have yelled,” said Jon into his ear, rubbing a hand up and down Martin’s back. “I was just worried when you never responded last night.”

Martin mumbled something, nosing Jon’s neck. In Jon’s arms, he could feel some of his energy coming back. The nausea was fading away, at least. He could probably give eating another try now. He’s sure he’ll feel better once he got some real food in him.

Martin’s eyes trailed the veins of Jon’s neck. He kissed the soft skin over his pulse.

Then he bit down.

Jon cried out and jerked away. Martin blinked, then slapped his hand over his mouth.

“Oh my god, Jon, I’m so sorry—”

“ _Ow._ ”

The sound was surprised more than it was pained. Jon stared at him with wide eyes. Oh, God. What could he even say? Sorry I tried to take a chunk out of your neck for no reason? Oh, _God_ , what was _wrong_ with him?

Then, Jon cleared his throat, putting a hand over his neck.

“Martin,” he said. “Not at work.”

Martin lowered his hand. Jon stared at the floor, a splash of red creeping onto his face.

Oh.

“Right, yeah, I, uh—” He ran a hand through his hair. “Sorry. I guess I’m just stressed.”

Jon took hold of Martin’s chin and leaned in for a quick but firm kiss.

“We can talk about it later,” he said. “Go and get something to eat.”

The barest hint of a bruise was already forming on his neck. Martin stared at it, transfixed by the colour. Were those his teeth marks? Had he really bitten down that hard?

“Yeah. See you later.”

Martin walked out into the corridor and Jon closed the door behind him. Some vague urge pulled him back and he stopped. He had only been gone for a few moments but the worse of the symptoms were already coming back. Shouldn’t he just stay with Jon in the office?

But, no. That was crazy. He needed to get something to eat.

He walked back to the breakroom, but his legs grew heavier and heavier the further down the hallway he got. Gooseflesh peppered the back of his neck and down his arms. The little bite of toast roiled in his stomach. He stopped and leaned against the wall.

Breath through it.

Just breath through it.

His throat seized and he covered his mouth

It wasn’t staying down.

He ran.

Collapsing over the toilet bowl, he heaved. He could feel the food move slowly as his throat convulsed and squeezed, fighting to expel it. When it blocked his throat, he reached in and took hold of it with two fingers and pulled, gagging. His eyes watered.

He held it in his palm. It didn’t look anywhere near the state it should be after spending the last half hour digesting in Martin’s stomach.

What the hell kind of bug was this?

Flushing the thing away, he stood and stumbled over to the sink, turning on the faucet and splashing his face with cold water.

“Well, Martin, you’re certainly looking chipper this morning.”

Martin whirled around.

In the doorway, Elias smiled.

“Someone’s jumpy,” he said. “Although, under your current circumstances, I suppose that’s only to be expected.”

Oh, this was just fantastic.

“Can we not do this right now?” Martin turned back to the sink and started washing his hands, mostly just to have something to do. Through the corner of his eyes, he watched Elias in the mirror. “I’m not really in the mood.”

“Oh, I’ll get out of your hair soon enough. I just wanted to see if you figured it out yet. I’ve been gripped with suspense since last night.”

“What are you talking about?”

Elias glanced at the stall Martin had collapsed in.

“What, that? You must really be bored if you think that’s interesting. It’s just a bug I picked up last night.”

“Of course.” Elias sauntered up next to him and Martin shrunk away. “A _bug_ , of course. Although, bit severe for a run of the mill flu, wouldn’t you say? You’ll have to remind which illness it is, exactly, that causes food to suddenly be indigestible, drops your core body temperature, and triggers an incredibly unusual fascination with blood.”

“I don’t have—”

Elias held up his hand and Martin would have leapt across the room if Elias’ other hand hadn’t been clutching the back of his neck.

A brilliant slash of blood was carved right through the centre of his palm. Martin gasped and he was thrown back to the one time he had ordered a filet mignon, because it was his birthday, a special occasion, and it had sizzled and popped and when he had cut into it, the flavourful juices had bled onto the plate, and Jon had teased him for looking like an overeager, drooling dog.

The steak had been delicious.

Elias tightened his grip.

“Careful,” he said. Martin had begun leaning forward.

Oh.

Oh, God.

He jerked away, clasping both hands over his nose.

Chuckling, Elias let him go and flipped on the faucet.

“Is it starting to sink in yet?” he asked as he held his hand under the running water, blood swirling down the drain. Some deep part of Martin ached at the sight. “If you’ve still not managed it, just take a look at your teeth.”

Martin lowered his hands, staring into the mirror. Elias couldn’t _possibly_ be implying what Martin thought he was implying, was he?

Still, beckoned by a horrified curiosity, he opened his mouth.

In the mirror, he could see two brilliantly white, brilliantly sharp canine teeth.

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” Elias said, drying his hand with a paper towel. Martin had stumbled backwards until he hit the wall, unable to tear his gaze away from the mirror. “They’re not even there all the time. Only when you get, well, _excited_.”

“You …” Martin tried to laugh, but it came out broken. “You’re just having me on, right?”

“Oh, please, Martin, you know how busy my schedule is. It is all a bit unbelievable, though, I'll give you that.” Reaching forward with one hand, Elias pulled down the neck of Martin’s jumper and gestured to the mirror.

Martin gasped. A gouged wound decorated his neck, half scabbed over as if it had already been healing for weeks. How had he not _noticed_ that? It looked like it should have been _incredibly_ painful. But even as touched it with shaking fingers, he could feel nothing.

“You see, a vampire can only sire if they’re able to drain the victim’s life to the brink of death. Not a moment before, and certainly not a moment after. They practice for years on thralls to get a sense for it, and it’s still not a guarantee.”

There were teeth marks.

Just like the ones he had left on Jon.

“Congratulations.” Elias clapped his shoulder. “You should pick up a lottery ticket on your way home.” He checked his watch. “Well, now that I’ve had my fun, I suppose we should be getting back to work. Good luck with the new diet, Martin.”

With a jovial wave, Elias left.

Martin stared into the mirror for a long time.


	3. Chapter 3

It didn’t take long for Martin to start getting angry.

So, what, he was feeling a little chilly and nauseous and suddenly that made him Dracula’s long-lost stepchild? Elias has fed them some crazy bullshit over the years, but nothing as insane as _this_.

The fangs were a bit harder to dismiss, though. As was the bite on his neck. And the fact that the vision of Elias' blood dripping down into the sink played in his mind again and again—

The world spun. He pressed his head into his arms folded on the breakroom table.

This wasn’t getting him anywhere.

Last night. Elias mentioned something about last night. Martin didn’t even remember anything interesting happening once he had left the Institute. He’d said goodbye to Jon, took his usual route home through the park, and then crashed into bed.

Surely, he’d recall getting jumped in an alley by a supernatural creature of darkness. Hard thing to forget. He knows the last few times have begun to blend together, but not to the point where he couldn’t remember _any_ of it, right? Especially not when they left such a horrific piece of physical evidence behind.

There’s been dozens of statements given about vampires over the years. Hell, maybe even hundreds. Nearly each one had been just as crap as the last, given by dewy eyed teenagers or lonely parents who had more than likely just been caught up in the dangerous romance of the pop culture mythos.

Not that Martin was judging. He’d gone through a phase, too.

There had been two statements, though, where a tape recorder had been needed. A self-proclaimed vampire hunter by the name of Trevor Herbert, whom Martin was pretty sure had died in the middle of his statement.

And the other was a young woman, who had claimed her partner had been a vampire and had turned her into something she referred to as a _thrall_. She hadn’t understood exactly what it meant, only that she couldn’t leave, because he’d go and starve without her, wouldn’t he? And that would be bad. So, she stayed, even though the bites were starting to hurt, and he became more and more distant, until one day, she only ever saw him briefly during dinner. She asked the Institute for help, on his behalf.

The only thing the follow up for that statement had illuminated was that the address provided had been vacated a long time ago and that all the contact information was no good. The name had probably been fake, too.

A chill crawled through his bones and settled in his sinking stomach.

“Have you eaten yet?”

Martin looked up. Jon was standing by his elbow with two cups of steaming tea. The bruise on his neck had darkened with mottled purples and greens.

Martin had to look away.

“No,” he said. “Still can’t manage it.”

“Well, so much for this,” Jon said, placing one of the teacups in front of Martin as he sat down. Martin smiled and took hold of the cup with both hands. Warmth seeped through his icy fingers.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it. What’s all this then?”

Jon sifted through the statements Martin had recovered.

Dammit. He had meant to put those away.

Martin kept his eyes on his tea. “Nothing, really. Just wanted to take my mind off things.”

Jon hummed, examining one of the cards and then the next. “Are these all about vampires?”

When Martin hesitated, Jon kissed his teeth, disapproval dripping from the sound. “Don’t tell me your fascination for them has returned.”

Taken aback, Martin snorted. Of _course_ that’s what Jon would latch on to. “What would you do if I said yes?”

“Well, stop it.” Jon dropped the statements, leaning back in his chair. “I never understood the obsession with them. It was so insufferable a few years ago.”

“Didn’t you say you liked that one movie with Tom Cruise?”

“Yes, I enjoyed _one_ movie, that doesn’t mean I have a grasp on the phenomenon as a whole.”

“I feel like it hit all the big draws. You know, you’ve got the mysterious, sexy loner with a tragic backstory.” Martin brought the tea to his lips, then quickly reconsidered. “I think it’s the same reason people love, you know, the whole bad boy getup. Just, they also bite you, occasionally. More than the usual amount, anyway, if you’re into that stuff.”

“The whims of pop culture continue to elude me.” Jon sipped his own tea. “It should have been vetala.”

“Uh, bless you?”

“ _Vetala_. From Hindu mythology. They’re basically the same thing, but they can tell the future and change bodies by possessing the deceased. It stops the rotting process so, you know, you can still have a ‘sexy’ element, if it’s absolutely necessary. It’s far more practical, regardless.”

“Yes, my inside parts are quivering.”

Jon took an angry bite out of his biscuit. Martin watched, a gentle smile curling his mouth.

Then, his eyes wandered to the fresh bruise on Jon’s neck. His smile drifted away, and he drew in a shuddering breath, licking his lips.

“Aren’t you going to cover that?”

“Hmm?” Jon looked at him, then touched around where the mark was. “What, this? I forgot about it, actually. Is it bad?”

“Sort of.”

“I see. Well.” A flush crept up his neck. “I’m sure most of the others are aware of our, erhm, _dalliance_ , by now. It doesn’t really bother me.” He frowned. “Does it bother you?”

Normally, Martin would be aflutter at Jon being so candid about their relationship, but all he could think about was how attractive Jon looked when his face was bright red like that.

“No, it doesn’t.”

Jon smiled shyly and brought up his cup to hide his mouth. “Good.” Finishing off the tea, he stood, stretched, and placed a warm hand on the back of Martin’s neck. “Back to work, then. Do you think you’ll be up for getting dinner later?”

“Um.” Martin stared at the teeth marks on Jon’s neck. If he had just aimed a bit more to the left, he would have hit his jugular vein. He probably wouldn’t have had to have bitten down that much harder to break skin. “Yeah. Sure.”

And then suddenly Jon was leaning in, head tilted for a goodbye kiss.

All Martin needed to do was take hold of Jon’s collar and lean up.

Something sharp cut his bottom lip.

He knocked over his chair as he surged to his feet, spilling the tea.

“I’m going home.”

“What?”

“You’re right. I shouldn’t have come in today. I’m going home.”

Jon’s mouth opened and closed. He narrowed his eyes, looking at Martin’s lips.

“You’re bleeding.”

Martin covered his mouth and started hurrying out of the breakroom. Jon reached out for him, but Martin flinched away.

“I’ll text you when I get home.”

Jon started to say something, but Martin’s long legs had already carried him into the hallway and halfway to the main entrance of the Institute. Jon hadn’t followed him out, and Martin, forcing himself to walk step after step, considered them both to be very, very lucky for it.

_> What’s wrong??_

_> nothing’s wrong, im just not feeling well_

_> I’m coming over after work_

_> it’s okay, im fine_

_> Like hell you are??_

_> it’s fine, i just need to sleep. don’t come over, itll just stress me out_

Martin tossed his phone away. Jon would be furious at being kept in the dark like this, but Martin couldn’t very well explain anything if he didn’t understand a damn thing himself.

He holed up in the bathroom, crouching over the sink. Staring at his reflection, he opened his mouth.

Nothing.

Elias had said they only appeared when he was … _excited_ , right?

He closed his eyes, thinking about Jon’s neck and the blood pulsing through it. When he opened them again, the fangs were there and he swore, storming out of the bathroom.

Perfect. Just brilliant. They’re all staring into the face of the Watcher’s Crown and Martin had to go and get himself turned into a bloody vampire. How was he supposed to help if all the while he was looking to make a snack out of Jon’s capillaries?

His stomach growled and he keeled over.

Oh, to hell with all _that_.

Yanking his jumper over his head and kicking off his shoes, Martin fell into bed, cocooning himself in the soft sheets.

He’ll think of something. He could sleep off the hunger.

He just needed time.

The digital clock glared at him through the darkness. Somewhere in the living room, his phone continued ringing.

He pulled the sheets over his head.

The sun peaked through the curtains before fading away again, and Martin still hadn’t thought of anything.

What could he even do? _Bite_ someone? Rob a blood bank?

How could he have let this happen? How could he be so _stupid?_ Jon _needed_ him, and now Martin was something even worse than useless. He was a threat.

That damned vampire could have at least finished the job if they were going to leave him in a state like this.

Martin watched the dust motes swirling in the moonlight, unable to summon the energy to close his eyes. A tingle prickled the tips of his fingers and his legs. How long had he been lying there? God, if that wasn’t a pathetic question.

The hunger was still there, the ache coming and going in throbbing waves, but it nearly wrapped back around from being painful to feeling, almost, kind of good. Satisfying. Everything else that weighed him down slipped away as his body focused on the immediate issue of _um, hello, you’re starving to death, idiot_. All that other stuff just wasn’t as important, comparatively speaking.

He supposed it was as good a plan as any. Can't hurt anybody if he just stayed in bed.

Martin snapped awake.

Someone had unlocked the front door.

“Martin, I am going to beat you senseless, do you hear me? Assuming you haven’t went and gotten yourself _kidnapped_.”

His pulse quickened, nostrils flaring. Jon passed through the kitchen, and Martin had a vision of his face twisting when he saw the stack of dishes in the sink again. Reaching the hallway, the carpet muffled his footfalls.

_no no nonono_

_this way this way this way this way_

“I’m hoping you were kidnapped, for your sake. ‘Oh, I’m _fine_ , Jon, don’t worry about me. Oh, don’t mind as I _completely disappear_ for _two days_.’ Are you _insane?_ ”

Martin’s muscles tensed as the footsteps drew closer.

_here jon i’m in here open the door open it jon open it_

The door opened.

Martin lunged.

There was a shout and a crash and a terrible crunching noise and Martin descended, tearing through soft skin.

The blood hit his tongue, and he came back to life.

Lips sealing around the bite mark, he swallowed with thick, desperate gulps, throat working in slow, rippling squeezes. A bright current sparked through his limbs and warmed them until he thought he would ignite.

He widened his mouth, tongue circling the bite to increase the flow. Some of the blood trickled down and he lurched to catch it. 

It was good.

It was _so_ good.

Someone moaned. It may have been Martin. But then something tugged at his shoulder, weak, and Martin lifted his head.

Jon’s hand had twisted up in Martin’s sleeve. Blood spooled from the back of his head and he stared at a far corner of the wall, eyes cloudy and unseeing.

Martin sucked in a sharp breath, a drop of blood falling from his chin and staining Jon’s white shirt.

Jon’s hand fell from his arm and it crumpled, boneless, onto the floor.


	4. Chapter 4

When Martin rushed Jon to hospital, he’d had only the barest wherewithal to wipe his mouth.

The staff asked for details, but Martin only said was that they were attacked by a savage animal on a nearby hiking trail. They stared at his blood-soaked vest, but he insisted he was fine, that they just needed to help Jon, please, _please_ help him.

They took Jon, mangled and lifeless, away on a stretcher. The doctor promised they would do everything they could and left Martin in the cold empty space of the waiting room.

He paced. At this time of night, only a few other concerned persons shared the room with him, and they gave him a wide berth. He tried to focus on something, anything. The cloying scent of the floor cleaner. Footsteps and the _skritch-skritch_ of pen scratching paper. The ticking clock. Anything that wasn’t _waiting._

One hour in and a nurse approached him.

Jon had slipped into hypovolemic shock.

The nurse’s face was grim as he asked him if there were any relatives the hospital could contact.

“No. Just me.”

Two hours and the nice front desk lady reminded him that he needed to fill out a registration form. Medical history, insurance, you know. Just fill in the boxes the best you can.

It was important to Jon that he fill it out. Martin told himself that over and over as he pressed the tip of the pen hard enough into the _Emergency Contact_ column that the ink bled through the paper. Just do this one thing.

Three hours.

Four.

When the doctor came back, Martin was alone in the waiting room. Her eyes were tired, but she was smiling. The contrast between that and the nurse who came before her dizzied him, and Martin took his first real breath of the night.

“He’s stable,” she said. “The surgery totalled eighteen stiches between his head and his neck, and he needed over a litre and a half blood transfusion, but he’s stable.”

“He’s okay, then? He’s safe?”

“He’s resting. It’s remarkable, but based on his vitals right now, I’m optimistic for a quick recovery.”

“Can I see him?”

“We prefer friends and family to observe visiting hours. When you come back tomorrow, his condition should be much improved.”

What? No. She couldn’t possibly expect him to leave _now_ , could she? Not when Jon was in there, alone. But her eyes were firm, and Martin started to panic.

“I just need to see he’s okay.”

“I’m sorry—”

“ _Please_ let me see him”

“Of course, sir. Right this way, sir.”

The doctor started down the hallway with the clear expectation that Martin would follow, but he was rooted to the spot, struck dumb by the 180°. He’d been prepared to fall to his knees and beg; had she just guessed and wanted to save time?

Or … 

Martin pressed a hand over his mouth.

No. He didn’t want to think about that right now.

It didn’t matter, anyway. If it helped him get to Jon, he didn’t care.

In the hospital room, Jon was asleep, an IV hooked to the inside of his arm and bandages wrapped tightly around his neck. The _beep-beep_ of the heart monitor ticked on, a musical comfort to an otherwise horrifying sight.

“Take all the time you need,” said the doctor, closing the door behind her.

Martin approached the bedside. Jon laid there, his face sunken and skin washed out under the harsh hospital lighting. Blue tinged lips pulled in breath after weak breath.

He took Jon’s hand and, when he found it cold, tried to rub some warmth into his limp fingers. It was like cradling the hand of a porcelain doll.

It was all too much like the last time Martin had been here, Jon dead in all but his dreams. Only this time, Martin was the one who put him there.

He wasn't sure if he should be in that room; he certainly didn't deserve to draw comfort at the sight of Jon lying in a hospital bed. But the thought of Jon waking up alone, again, made him sick, so he stayed. At least he had Jon’s slow breathing and the chirp of the heart monitor to fill the silence this time. 

Jon was alive. He was safe. Martin would worry about everything else later.

Sunlight slunk through the open window, robbing the fluorescent lighting of its unfeeling glow. Occasionally, a nurse checked up on them. If they had a problem with Martin’s presence, they said nothing. One of them even asked if he wanted a chair, which he accepted.

Funny. He’d been on his feet for nearly twelve hours by that point and hadn’t even noticed. In fact, he couldn’t remember ever feeling so well-rested before, despite having not slept for days. Even the relentless iciness that plagued him had thawed.

Jon slept.

Martin watched.

The colours of sunset dappled the walls before Jon’s eyes finally fluttered open, misty and distant. They trailed around the room, resting on the door, the IV drip, the bed railings, before landing on Martin and sharpening with clarity. Jon squeezed them shut again, the heart monitor picking up.

“Please tell me I was attacked by a rabid jackrabbit or something,” said Jon, “and not that you’ve managed to get yourself turned into an actual, bloody vampire.”

Martin's mouth flapped like a fish. He didn’t know how he expected Jon to react to the sight of him, but he never would have guessed the words _rabid jackrabbit_ being uttered in any capacity.

“I’m sorry, what?”

Jon opened his eyes again, face brimming with barely concealed annoyance. The haughty effect he was likely going for was dampened by his bulky neck bandages. It struck Martin in the oddest way.

He laughed. He laughed hard. Enough that his eyes watered and chest began to hurt. He pressed his forehead against the cold metal railing as his shoulders shook with the force of it.

This ridiculous man.

“Mind letting me in on the joke?”

Martin sniffed, rubbing his face, and straightened up. Jon was staring at him, his eyes bright (awake, aware, properly irritated).

“There’s absolutely nothing funny about this situation.”

Jon picked at the dinner the nice nurse had provided him with a plastic fork, considering Martin much in the same way he might consider an unruly cat parked in a tree.

“So, you’re a vampire.”

“Yeah.”

“And Elias knows about this?”

“Do you even have to ask?”

“And your solution upon making this discovery was to hole yourself up in your bed until you starved yourself into a delusional fugue?”

Even belayed in hospital, Jon could summon the energy to snark. Usually, Martin found it his most refreshing quality. Usually.

It was hardly an unfair jab, though. Shame weighed down his shoulders and he leaned against the bed. “Yeah, I wasn’t exactly at my most rational, just then.”

“No, I suppose not. I was worried about you, you know.”

Martin knew. He had heard his phone ringing again and again as he cowered in the darkness. His shoulders sunk even further. “I’m sorry.”

Jon didn’t have a response to that, choosing instead to nibble on the edge of a carrot. His face twisted and he dropped it. “I can’t stand hospital food.”

Martin craned his neck to get a look at the plate. Yeah, the globular mashed potatoes weren’t doing anything for him, either. Something told him he’d feel the same even if he _could_ digest it.

A horrid thought struck him.

“Jon, can you open your mouth?”

“What? Why?”

“Just, please?”

Baffled, Jon opened his mouth, exposing his coffee stained teeth. Martin leaned forward, bracing his hands on the bed.

Nothing.

“Blood,” said Martin, watching for a reaction. “Blood bank, blood drive, uh, blood bleeding bleedily—”

“What the _hell_ are you doing?”

But nothing change. Jon's teeth were normal. Martin sat back down, releasing a long sigh.

Jon was gripping his fork, as if to defend himself from Martin’s lunge, then pointed it at him accusingly. “Care to explain what that was all about?”

“Elias said people are changed into vampires when they get a lot of blood taken from them.” Well, it seemed like 1500 ml wasn't the magical measurement a vampire should be looking for. God, he didn't even want to think about it. 

Jon stared without blinking, then turned to his food, stabbing a staccato beat into the potatoes. “Is that what happened to you?”

Martin thought back to that night, but same as all the other times he tried, he remembered nothing but the hazy feeling that he had gone straight home to bed. “I honestly barely even remember.” Martin pulled down the collar of his shirt. “Hard to argue with that kind of evidence, though. Not that you really need it.”

Jon’s face paled, his fingers tightening in the bedsheets. “My god.” He lifted a hand, but was stopped halfway by the IV and winced. Martin reached out, but Jon had already pulled away.

“Are you okay?” he asked, lowering his hand.

Jon touched the needle, the skin surrounding it slightly red with irritation. “I believe that's what I should be asking you.”

Martin lifted his collar back up, not wanting to upset Jon further. “Can you,” he paused, steeling himself, “can you remember anything?”

“About what?”

“You know. Last night.”

“Oh.” Jon looked away, and Martin resisted the urge to lean over to catch a glance at his expression. “Not really. I remember cracking my head on the floor. I remember you …” He spooned the mash potatoes on top of each other into a makeshift tower, before spearing it down. “I remember you jumping at me.”

Ah.

Jon's cutlery clattered against each other as he dumped his plate on the nightstand.

“Well, I’m fine now,” he said, resting his hands on top of his lap. “You should go home and get some rest.”

“I’m not leaving.”

“Martin, it’s okay. You’re probably exhausted.”

“I don’t think I need much sleep these days.”

“Don’t be— oh.” He narrowed his eyes. “That’s handy.”

“What, are you jealous or something?”

“It’s more useful than anything our bloody benefactor has granted _me_.”

Martin took in the dark shadows underneath Jon’s eyes. Too many long nights at the Institute. He supposed the man had a point.

“At the very least, you should get changed,” Jon continued. “I’m shocked the nurses haven’t called the police on you already.”

Martin’s face became hot. He’d forgotten about that. That must have been a comforting image for Jon when he first woke up; Martin wearing a shirt stained with his own blood.

“Okay, yes, fair enough.” He stood. “Do you want me to bring you anything?”

“No, thank you. Actually, my phone.” Jon shifted around in his bed, closing his eyes. “I think I might sneak in a nap in the meantime.”

Some colour had come back to his face. His lips were dry but flushed with their usual light pink.

Would it be okay if Martin kissed him goodbye? He reached forward to touch Jon’s hand, eyes on his mouth, but pain stabbed his throat like a hot poker.

Jon didn’t open his eyes.

Clasping his neck, Martin rushed out of the room. He shivered.

When had the hospital become so cold?

“Martin, tell me, how is it that humanity can have accomplished so much in terms of innovation, and hospital food can still be so shite?”

“For God's sake, Jon, the staff isn’t trying to poison you. They pick that stuff because it’ll help you get better. Just eat it.”

“Pray tell, what _exactly_ is so healthy about fuzzy watermelon?”

Jon stuck out the speared piece of fruit and Martin twisted his nose. Yes, overripe fruit cups are a bane on the planet, he knew it, Jon knew it, but Jon needed to eat, so Martin held his tongue as he sat down.

Pulling back his fork, Jon continued to stab at his breakfast. “We’re going to need to figure out the matter of your new diet.”

Martin paused halfway as he reached for his bag. He’d brought Jon’s phone as requested, but also brought some of Jon’s favourite books, you know, just in case. He had been hoping he could read them out loud. That particular fantasy was rapidly disintegrating, however.

“I imagine this incident will keep you sustained for a while, but it’s impossible to know for how long. Best to get a handle on it as soon as possible.” He touched the band aid on his forearm. They had taken the drip out earlier. “I hope having foreign blood doesn’t complicate things.”

“Foreign … blood …?” Surely _,_ Martin was misunderstanding what Jon was implying? “Do you think I’m going to—” _drink your blood_ , but Martin swallowed it back just in time, “—do _that_ to you again?”

“Of course. Who else?”

“ _No one_. But _especially_ not you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Martin. Where else are you going to get blood? Some random bystanders on the street? Do you think I could get another pudding cup?”

“Just eat the fruit, Jon. And that’s not the point. Are you just going to ignore the fact that me drinking your blood almost got you _killed?_ ”

“Well, who isn’t trying to kill me these days?” A small smile gently curled his lips. “At least you give me backrubs from time to time.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Martin snapped, and Jon’s smile fell away. “Elias said vampires have to eat a person every other _night_. If I do that again, I don't know how I'll react.” He remembered the euphoria that lit his nerves as he glutted on Jon's blood. "What if I don't stop?"

“ _Obviously_ , we need to figure out something more sustainable, but in the meantime, my regenerative abilities are an unknown variable. It’s worth pursuing—”

“It’s not.”

“I’m not going to let you starve yourself again. What would you have me do?”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe realize for once that you’re being impulsive and throwing yourself into danger, _again_ , for _no reason_ —” 

Jon dropped his fork on his plate. “This is intolerable—”

“ _Eat._ ”

Jon stuffed a piece of cantaloupe in his mouth, then another one, and then a strawberry. Martin rolled his eyes. Nothing was ever simple with this man.

“Yes, thank you, Jon, this is really making me feel better.”

Jon shoved in another piece, juices leaking from the corner of his mouth as he struggled to chew.

“I get it. What are you trying to—?”

Jon swallowed and he choked, and still he lifted another piece to his lips. His eyes had glazed over. Martin’s stomach plunged. He grabbed Jon’s arm and shook him.

“Jon, _stop_.”

With a strangled noise, Jon spluttered, half chewed fruit flying across his bed. He clutched his neck and he coughed, the sound wet and gasping. He leaned back in his pillow, dragging the front of his hand across his chin.

“What just happened?”

Martin grabbed a washcloth and ran it under the sink, but as he reached towards Jon’s face, Jon grabbed his wrist. Martin weakly struggled against his hold.

“Let me just— Your face—”

“Martin.” Jon tightened his grip. “ _What happened_?”

Thorns crept up Martin’s throat, but he fought it. Why did he have to _say_ it? Jon was covered in sticky fruit juice because Martin had _made_ him do it, had _made_ him almost choke on his own breakfast, and Martin just wanted to clean his face and _please, Jon, don’t make me say it, just let me fix this._

“I think I can control people,” he said, voice barely a whisper. “I think I can make them do things.”

“Control them? Like a compulsion?”

Martin nodded, his lips pressed tightly together.

Jon stared at him for a long moment, eyes flicking across his face. They darkened, and he quickly dropped Martin’s hand.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean …”

Chuckling faintly, Martin collapsed in his chair. “Welcome to the club.”

A rivulet of water dripped from Martin’s hand onto the bedsheet. He held out the washcloth. Jon took it and wiped his chin.

“Thank you,” he said. Clearing his throat, he tossed the cloth onto the bedside table. “Although, if it’s to be a club, I think I should point out that I was here first.”

Martin snorted. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

There was a shuffling sound. Martin looked up. Jon had turned one of his hands towards him. After a moment’s hesitation, Martin took it, and Jon squeezed him as tightly as he was able, and it was still so weak.

“We can talk about it later,” said Jon, and Martin knew the discussion was far from over, but he was tired, and Jon’s hand was still so cold. “Didn’t you have something for me?”

“Nothing, really.” Martin reached for his bag. “Just a few books.”

“Were you going to read them out loud?”

“You hate it when I do that.”

"I do not."

"You think it's sappy."

“Well, it is.” Jon lowered himself back into bed, closing his eyes. “But I suppose your voice for Holmes isn’t going to magically improve on its own. Unless that’s another yet undisclosed ability of yours.” He cracked an eyelid open. “Is it?”

“Probably not.”

“Well, there’s only one way to find out.” He closed his eye again. “Proceed.”

Martin shook his head, breathing a laugh through his nose. He supposed they deserved the distraction, however temporary. Pulling out the book, he opened to the first page. His voice for Holmes had not, in fact, improved, but Jon didn’t seem to mind all that much.


	5. Chapter 5

When lunchtime rolled around, Melanie and Basira were miles away from the Institute on separate cases, Jon was deep in his statements, unlikely to emerge from his office anytime soon, and Martin wasn’t stupid enough to try and account for Elias.

Still, he locked the door of the breakroom behind him.

He didn’t need to take any chances.

Approaching the refrigerator, he pulled out his lunch bag and dropped it on the counter.

Okay. That’s step one. Easy.

He unzipped the bag, unlatching it tooth by tooth, until he could pull back the cover and reach inside. The slab of packaged beef was cold and wet with condensation. It stared up at him and he stared at it, and he was seized by the urge to bang his head into the wall.

It was a stupid plan. Of _course,_ it was a stupid plan. It embarrassed him that he even thought of it at all. But he needed to try something. _Anything_. Jon was _brewing_ , and it was only a matter of time before he’d try and convince Martin to drink his blood again, and Martin was going to say yes because his throat was aching and his hands trembled and he was wearing two jumpers and the Institute was still too cold.

He sliced open the packaging, the red liquid sluicing down his fingers into the sink. Elias’ blood had made for a far more enticing sight, much as he hated to admit it. He hated that he had to do this at the Institute, but he’d been spending all of his time with Jon, helping him prepare to return to work. Before he knew it, he was staring down the face of a sand timer that was rapidly emptying.

Grabbing a fork and knife, he cut off a small piece and stabbed it, bringing it close to his face. The smell was not immediately offensive, at least, but when he gently bit into a corner, he jerked back.

It was like biting into tofu that had laid forgotten in the back of the refrigerator. Slimy. Stale. A meal that the brain recognized as technically edible but one the stomach would be damned to accommodate.

 _Come on_ , he thought, pressing it against his lips. He could eat Friday meatloaf surprise all through secondary, he could eat this. Sucking in a quick breath, he shoved the fork into his mouth. A full-body shudder rippled through him

He forced his jaw to move, tongue pushing the food from side to side as his saliva worked it to mush. Okay, good. This was progress, right?

Now swallow. Swallow it.

He forced it to the back of his mouth.

_Swallow._

His throat spasmed. He tried to fight it, but before he could stop himself, he spat into the sink with a wet _splop!_ The food stared up at him, soggy and moist, and if it could talk, it would probably yell at him for failing to do something as basic as _eating_. It was quite opinionated, for a piece of steak.

So much for that plan.

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he stared at the blood that stained it. He leaned down to lick it off and recoiled.

“It might be helpful to know that a bloody steak doesn’t actually have that much blood in it.”

“For _God’s_ sake,” Martin said, clutching his startled heart. Elias raised a brow. “I locked the flipping door! What, are you telling me you can phase through _walls_ now?”

Elias held up a key ring, jingling it slightly.

Fine. Whatever. This may as well be happening. Rubbing a hand over his face, Martin turned back to the kitchenette. “What do you want, Elias?”

“I was just curious as to how my resident nightcrawler was handling himself. It’s been quite an exciting couple of days, hasn’t it?”

“Yep. _So_ exciting.” He shoved the steak into a plastic bag and zipped it up. Maybe Jon would want it for dinner. “Is there something in your contract that _makes_ you to talk like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like …” Martin grappled for the words. “Like Lex Luthor if he was also a philosophy major.”

“Would you be surprised if I said yes?”

_Ugh._

Grabbing a box of honey tea from the cabinets, Martin fished out a bag and ripped it open. Jon would be missing him by now. “Whenever you’re done jerking us all around, be sure to let me know.”

“Oh, but Martin, that’s why I’m here. You’ll be pleased to know I’ve come to deliver to you the solution to your immediate problem.”

“Yeah? And what’s that?”

“You’re familiar with the term _thrall_ by now, yes?”

Martin paused halfway in his retrieval of the porcelain cup.

_We’d been together for a few months at that point. I always knew about the vampire thing, thought it was a little sexy, and we got on great. When he asked if he could bite me, over the moon, you know? And it felt good! It felt really good, so, yeah, nice surprise. So, when he brought up this whole thrall thing, explained it that he wouldn’t need to spend so much time getting blood somewhere else, it sounded too good to be true. I would be the only thing he needed, forever. Who could say no to that?_

“A thrall,” he said, placing the cup on the counter. “That’s like a blood donor, right?”

“Oh, good, someone’s been doing their research. You’re close, although blood donor might be too cerebral a word. It’s really more equivalent to livestock.”

“ _Wow_ , yes, I’m _dying_ to hear more about this wonderful plan.”

“Would you rather I spell out the alternative?”

Scorching needles snaked down his throat. He curled his hand into a tight fist, but it still shook, ever so slightly.

“That’s what I thought.” Elias advanced, considering the teacup over Martin’s shoulder and Martin tried not to flinch this time. “You see, Martin, I have grand plans for both you and Jon, and it wouldn’t do to have you starve yourself to death or for Jon to let you drain him dry.”

“And making Jon a thrall is going to keep that from happening?”

“Of course. Vampires have taken thralls since the beginning. Why waste energy hunting a new victim every other night, forced to devour them it their entirety to be satisfied, when you can keep one in the convenience of your home, taking the occasional sip for the same benefit? Unless, of course, you enjoyed it." Elias shrugged. "But somehow, I don't think that lifestyle suits you.”

Steam hissed out of the lip of the kettle, the shriek piercing Martin’s ears.

_Something was different after that, though. David was different. He didn’t want to talk anymore, about anything. I’d barely ever see him. Just in the evening when he needed to eat. None of it was like I thought it’d be, and I’d try to bring it up, but he’d get so angry with me and then when he’d bite me, it would hurt, like properly hurt. I’m sure he’s just stressed about something, but he doesn’t tell me anything._

He poured the hot water into the teacup, some of the liquid sloshing out into the saucer. “And that’s going to work? Your freaky little god isn’t going to pitch a fit?”

“Oh, believe you me, much as I detest the Hunt leaving such an obvious stake in my precious Archivist,” the way his lips curled made Martin suspect that he, in fact, took great delight in it, “it’s more important to our patron to keep the both of you in relatively stable condition. It can be useful, in fact, to have a leashed vampire lying around. But, Martin …”

Elias grabbed his shoulder, his breath warming Martin’s cheek.

“While I _prefer_ to keep you both,” he said. “I _need_ my Archivist.”

With a quick, encouraging pat, Elias tucked his hands in his pockets and made for the door.

“All you need to do is bite to claim. You’ll figure it out.”

Silence fell in the kitchen.

_I’d think about leaving sometimes. But, I don’t know, whenever I try leaving for good, he’d talk to me and bring me back around. Always had a real way with words, he did. And I still love him, even if we don’t talk as much. It doesn’t make sense to leave. I just want things to go back to the way they were. I want to be together forever. Can’t you help him?_

With shaking hands, Martin plated the teacup, grabbed a packet of biscuits, and made his way back to Jon’s office.

“So,” Jon said, dumping a wad of sugar into his coffee and stirring it in. Martin watched from the kitchen table. At Martin’s insistence, they had gone back to Jon’s flat after work, as he’d unable stomach the thought of going back to his own just yet.

Jon took a seat next to him, cooling the coffee with a slow breath. “We can deduce that in order to function optimally, under normal circumstances, a vampire needs to consume approximately 12 litres of blood a week, if they need to hunt a new victim every other night.”

“Okay, but I doubt a normal vampire is taking only what they need, right? They seem generally, well, not the nicest. There’s no way I need that much.”

“You took roughly a litre and a half from me and it’s been four days. Scale of one to ten, how are you feeling?”

“I don’t know. A six?”

“Hold out your hand.”

“What? Why?”

“Just do it.”

Twisting his lips, Martin did as told. Despite his best efforts, it still trembled, just enough to betray him. Jon took his hand and lowered it to the table, rubbing his thumb gently across his knuckles.

“Martin, we can’t puzzle this out this if you’re not honest with me.”

“I’m sorry.” He slid his hand away and hid them both under the table. “A four?” A frigid bite coursed through him. “Three.”

Jon hummed, and Martin hoped he hadn't noticed the onset of his shivering. Thankfully, he chose that moment to reach for his bag.

“While we were at work, I had a feeling I should take another look at the statements you had taken out the other day.”

The phrasing struck him as deliberately vague and Martin crossed his arms. “Had a feeling, or _had a feeling?_ ”

Jon kept his eyes on his bag as he rifled around in it, and Martin knew enough of _la langue de Jon_ that, yes, the godforsaken Beholding itself was sticking its fingers into this particular pie. Jon tossed a statement paper onto the table.

“Do you know what a thrall is?”

Oh, of _course_ , he had a feeling to look at _this_ one.

“What a coincidence. It just so happens that Elias talked to me about the very same thing today.”

“Elias? When did this happen?”

“When I was trying the thing with the, uh, steak.”

“Ah, yes, the steak.” And Martin wasn’t looking at him, but he could _feel_ the way he quirked his stupid eyebrow in that unimpressed manner of his. “How did that go?”

“No, it didn’t work. You were right.” As if Jon hadn’t already expressed his opinion on Martin’s idea when he had first brought the damn thing home from the grocery store. “But, you know, I was thinking, what if I just eat _live_ animals? I mean, I'm pretty sure I’ve already eaten a bird, at least.”

“You _ate_ a _bird?_ ”

“Yeah, the night I was attacked.” If he strained himself trying to remember, he thinks he could recall the fluttering of wings and the taste of copper. He grimaced. “So, yeah. Vampire vegetarian. You know, like in Twilight.”

“I see.” Skepticism oozed from the words like a slimy mold. “And how do you picture that working out?”

“I mean, I haven’t worked out the logistics. But I guess I could … set up traps?”

“Traps?”

Martin withered under the dubious tone, enthusiasm for the new plan shrivelling away. “In the park?”

“I think there are a few ordinance laws forbidding that.”

Who gave a toss about ordinance laws? Martin was a _vampire_ , surely that put him in a place where he didn’t have to worry about stuff like _ordinance laws_?

“Okay, fine. I can buy them. Rats and stuff. They have stuff like that for, like, snakes, right?”

“Martin. Darling.” Jon placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “You are strong and capable and intelligent, and I love you immensely. But you couldn’t possibly pick up a tiny little rat and look into its eyes and then kill it.”

Mortification flooded him, because he tried to picture it, tried to picture picking up a mouse by the tail, watching it struggle for its life, and then biting it, and he squirmed.

Jon slid his hand off his shoulder and Martin lowered his head, embarrassed and ashamed.

“But I’m totally capable of looking into your eyes and killing _you?_ ”

“That’s hardly comparable. _I_ can consent. Also, we’re very explicitly trying to _avoid_ killing me.” Jon waved the statement in the air. “That’s what this entire discussion is for.”

Releasing a torrent of air through his nose, Martin pressed his fists over his eyes. He felt like he shouldn’t _have_ to explain why he _didn’t_ want to discuss this, but it was hardly the first time he’s had to walk Jon through his own terrible ideas, so he took a deep breath.

“Fine, yes, okay, let’s discuss the plan our incredibly evil boss and his fear god are trying to foist on us, for definitely, completely altruistic reasons.”

“Let’s.”

“I promise I was going to tell you. It’s just, you know …”

“Our incredibly evil boss and his fear god?”

Martin put a hand over his mouth to hide his smile. Well, at least Jon wasn't completely without sense. They had that. “Yeah.”

“What did he say?”

“Well, he made it sound like some kind of, I don’t know, _branding_? He said, ‘bite to claim’, whatever the hell that means. And I guess after that, the thrall becomes like a super blood donor.” A root of disgust curled in his stomach as he remembered Elias’ words. “Although he said it was more like livestock.”

“Anything else?”

“Not much. Just some vague nonsense about _grand plans._ ”

Jon nodded, his long fingers circling the rim of his cup, his eyes set squarely on the statement. Having been prepared to toss the scrap of paper away, Martin’s stomach sank.

“We’re not _really_ going to consider this, are we, Jon?”

“As much as I would like to come up with something else, we don’t have time. I don’t trust Elias, but he clearly has a desire to keep us alive for something. I can at least trust his ability to serve his own self-interest.”

“Okay, fine, let me be clear. _I_ do not want to consider this.”

“Why not? I thought it was a rather elegant solution.”

“You’ve _read_ the statement, right?”

Jon nodded, his eyes furrowed, which only served to stoke Martin’s frustrations.

“It was upsetting, certainly,” Jon said. “I’m sympathetic towards the woman, but nothing struck me as particularly concerning as it pertains to our situation.”

“So, you don’t have a problem with the part where nice and lovely David was obviously _mind controlling_ her into staying in a terrible relationship?”

“I did pick up on that piece of subtext, yes.”

Martin gripped a wad of his own hair, wondering how he could possibly explain such an obvious problem, when Jon’s eyes lost their focus. The air grew dense and thick, the taste of something metallic numbing Martin's tongue, the way it did whenever Jon was _knowing_ something. When he was rooting around Martin’s head like Martin was an old chest stuffed away in an attic somewhere, filled with dust mites and diaries brimming with ugly secrets.

Jon’s eyes sharpened, swivelling towards Martin.

“You’re worried you’ll be tempted to compel me on purpose.”

Well.

There it was.

Martin scrubbed his jaw, unsure if he was relieved that he didn’t have to _say_ it or frustrated that Jon was peeking inside of his head and just tossing out whatever he found like he was tossing someone their car keys.

He supposed it was hypocritical to complain about having a supernatural compulsion worked on him, though.

“I obviously can’t control it,” he said. “I’ve already almost made you choke in the hospital.”

“That was an accident.”

“But I still _wanted_ you to eat.” Something burned in the back of his eyes and Martin chuckled, trying to smother his fear under a thin layer of levity. “Do you have any idea how frustrating it is to get you to leave work and go to bed? And now I can just _make_ you do it. Don’t you see how that could turn into something awful?”

“Martin, I’m hardly going to hold it against you if your concern for me gets the better of you. You’ll learn to control it. All the avatars do, eventually.”

“It’s not just that.” The words stirred and roiled in his mind, trying to articulate what scared him, what paralyzed him with dread, but they bobbed up and down in his throat, unable to escape the weight of his shame. “Jon?”

“Yes?”

“Can you ask me?”

“Ask you what?”

“I mean, _ask_ me.”

Realization dawned in Jon’s eyes. He cleared his throat and Martin stiffened.

“Martin,” Jon began, and the warped gravity returned, bearing it’s crushing weight on Martin’s shoulders, “what are you afraid of?”

His throat prickled, but it was gentle this time, now that he wasn’t fighting it.

“I’m scared you’ll want to leave some day and I’ll force you to stay.”

Jon drew in a breath, shocked, or maybe angry. Martin didn’t know, because he had closed his eyes, unable to bring himself to look at Jon’s face. Martin could so clearly see the way it would play out, too. Jon decides he’s had enough, that Martin’s too slow, too cowardly, too _annoying_ , and that he wants to _leave_ , and the words, unbidden, would rise to Martin’s mouth—

_Don’t go._

And Jon would stay. Jon would let Martin keep him, because Martin told him to.

“Obviously, I want to say I’d never do something like that,” he said. “But I _could_. I—” His voice cracked, and he took a deep breath. He _had_ to get this out. Jon needed to know what he could be getting himself in to, even the parts that made Martin want to curl up somewhere dark and disappear forever.

“I love you _so much_. You mean everything to me, and I don’t know what I would do with myself if you ever left.” Even as he said it, his throat tightened, but he pressed on. “But you still should get to make that choice for yourself. And I don’t trust myself not to take it away from you.”

Jon was looking at him, expression unreadable even to Martin, who waited, holding his breath. Did he even need to breathe anymore? He might find out now with the way Jon continued to stare and stare.

Outside, the noise pollution was heavy, thick with the rush hour traffic. Voices crept into the quiet space of Jon’s flat and Martin didn’t know if he wanted to shut the world out or to blast the noise into his ears until they bled so that he could drown out the silence.

“Thank you,” Jon said, finally.

Then, he took Martin's hand, massaging the skin between Martin's thumb and index finger.

“I’m not worried, though.”

The tension drained out of Martin’s shoulders like a hissing car tire. He’s not worried. Jon wasn’t worried Martin was going to take his free will from him. Was it because he believed Martin would never do something as monstrous as that, or some other reason?

“And, uh, why not?”

“Easy. I’m never going to leave you.”

Martin waited for Jon to laugh, smile at his own bad joke, and elaborate on his _actual_ reason. But Jon was still looking at their joined hands, rotating them to trace the scar along Martin’s thumb.

Okay, he was waiting for _Martin_ to laugh. That made sense.

“You’re sweet …”

“Thank you. I am also being quite serious. I get the feeling you’re waiting for a punchline.”

Martin chuckled anyway, but Jon’s expression stayed the same.

“I, uh … It’s not that simple—”

“I think you’ll find that it is. Your primary concern is that there will come a point where you’ll be tempted to use your abilities to keep me from leaving our relationship, but there’s no need for you to worry, as I intend on staying by your side for, well, ever. The foreseeable future, at least.”

Martin’s confused smile slipped away as he realized that, yes, Jon was really, _actually_ serious, and somehow that made all of this even worse.

“Okay, but you _do_ understand how ridiculous that sounds, right?”

“I don’t see why I should. I’m of perfectly rational mind.”

What a point to reach, where _Martin_ had to chastise _Jon_ to take it easy with the meaningless romantic platitudes. Pulling his hand away, he scrubbed it through his hair, then leapt to his feet and stormed into the kitchen.

“Okay, here’s why; you can’t know a thing like that. Even with your magical all-seeing eye powers, you can’t _know_ that.”

Jon turned in his chair, watching Martin with a lifted brow. “I don’t _know_ that the sun is going to rise in the morning, but I can make a pretty easy deduction based on the information I have presently available.”

“This isn’t like the _sun_. This is … _emotions._ They’re _messy_. They _change._ You have no idea how you’re going to feel about me, about any of this, ten years from now.” Hands itching, he pulled out a teabag and made a beeline for the kettle before remembering, oh, yeah, he can’t even drink the blasted stuff anyway. Dumping the box with a groan, he turned back to Jon.

“Look me in the eye and tell me you know with 100% certainty you’re going to want to be with me ten years from now.”

“I’m going to want to be with you ten years from now.”

This smug bastard.

The initial wave of frustration, however, was replaced by a shocking, icy chill as he realized what he had done. _Again._

“I’m sorry,” he said, covering his mouth. He’s been doing that a lot, lately. Curling his hand into a fist, he lowered it to his side. “This is what I’m talking about, though, you know? You shouldn't trust me. _I_ don't trust me.”

Jon's chair screeched as he stood, and his socked feet entered Martin’s field of vision. A hand cradled his chin and gently pushed upwards until he had to meet Jon’s eyes.

“That wasn’t a compulsion,” Jon said. “I see that I’m failing to convince you. Wait here, please.”

He disappeared into his room, leaving Martin alone in the kitchen. The noise of the traffic outside the apartment had died down, illustrating, that, yes, the silence was much, much worse.

There was a shuffling noise and Jon returned a moment later. He took Martin’s hand.

“Do you want to know what frightens me the most?”

Martin blinked, thrown off track by the conversation’s abrupt change in direction. “What?”

“It’s not Elias, or the Watcher’s Crown, or the Eye, or any of the other fourteen bloody horrors lurking out there.” Jon tightened his grip on Martin’s hand and took a deep breath. “What frightens me is that there might come a day where I’ll know every secret you keep, how you’re feeling, what you’re thinking, all of it. You might never have any privacy from me for as long as either of us live.”

Jon lowered his head, eyes dark with emotion. Some of his wild hair fell into his face and Martin reached up to push it away. Jon smiled, leaning into the touch.

“I question myself constantly if being with you is the right thing to do. The best thing for _you._ How could it possibly be fair to you, after all, knowing that that might be your future?”

Martin held his breath, waiting for the familiar pressure of compulsion, but it wasn’t there. Well. He supposed this one was easy enough.

“I mean, you know.”

Jon raised a brow, one corner of his mouth curling up. “What do I know?”

“You _know_.”

But Jon made no indication that he, in fact, knew, and Martin let out a long breath. “Because I love you. Obviously.”

“Good.”

Prying open Martin’s hand, he pressed something cool and metal into his palm and curled it closed again.

“So, we’re in accordance.”

Turning his hand, Martin unfolded it, finger by finger, until the ring held in his palm glinted under the glow of the kitchen light.


	6. Chapter 6

Over the last few years, Martin's mind had helpfully spliced events into several categories. There was ‘pre-Institute’ and ‘post-Institute’, ‘pre-vampire’ and ‘post-vampire’ (although that one was still being compartmentalized), and ‘before-Jon’ and ‘after-Jon’, further segmented into before and after, ‘Jon-lying-comatose-in-hospital’, ‘Jon-taking-his-hand-on-a-lonely-coastline’, and ‘Jon-waking-up-in-his-bed-and-kissing-him-over-morning-coffee’.

And here came a new segment, barelling towards him at a speed of 100 kilometres per hour. Everything before, and after, Jon had pressed a cool, silver ring into the dip of his palm.

He didn't know what to say, where to even begin. Tumultuous emotions bounced around his chest like an enthusiastic juggler performing for the queen.

Keep it simple. Remember to breathe.

“How long have you had this?”

“Oh, ages, by now.” Jon’s eyes crinkled, as if trying to remember. As if he’s been waiting to propose to Martin for so long, he couldn’t quite recall where it had started, and Martin’s heart jumped. “It just never felt like the right moment, what with the Watcher’s Crown, and then Lukas, and Elias, in general …”

Fingers trembling, Martin picked the ring up. It was simple sterling silver with a charcoal inlay, classy and elegant, exactly to Martin’s taste when he hadn’t even known he'd had a taste in rings to begin with.

He held it up to the light. A short collection of words was inscribed on the inside.

_you saw me_

A feeling both light and far too heavy sat on his chest, and he started growing dizzy. _Breathe._

“I didn’t even think you wanted, you know,” eternal vows, a union, _marriage_ , “that.”

“To be honest, it came as a surprise to me, too. It sounds halfway tolerable when it’s with you, though.”

“Gee, how romantic."

“I’m presuming that your delay in providing an answer is a result of shock and not that you’re trying to let me down easy.” The words were dry, but Martin recognized the slight hint of worry underlying them. “Is that the wrong assumption to make?”

“No.” As if Martin could _possibly_ say anything else. Then, he winced. “Wait, I mean, yes. It’s a yes. I’m saying yes.”

“Oh, good.”

The relief in those words nearly knocked Martin over. Pressing his lips to the back of Martin’s hand, Jon took the ring, sliding it into place. Martin wasn’t sure if he was going so slowly on purpose, so as to savour the moment, or if the gravity of the event merely slowed down Martin’s perception of time. Either way, it was ages before the ring finally slid into place, fitting like a key to it's lock. Perfect. Like it was made for him.

"How did you ...?"

“Occasionally, there are benefits to knowing everything to have ever happened ever,” said Jon. He winked. “Such as sneaking in ring measurements.”

Martin laughed, slightly hysterical by that point, and hid his face in the soft cotton of Jon’s shoulder, breathing in the smell of coffee and lemony laundry detergent. Martin had never let himself consider this moment a possibility, never dared to wonder if Jon would want this, astounded that Jon had been willing to share anything with him at all, and yet, he still hoped it would have been exactly like this.

If only it hadn’t taken being transformed into a _vampire_ to make it happen. That part was less than ideal.

He curled a fist in the front of Jon’s shirt.

“What if you’re making a mistake?”

“I could ask you the same thing.” 

“I asked you first. I mean, aren’t you a little afraid that I’m the sort of person that even _might_ hypnotize you?”

“For one thing, the fact that the mere possibility of this happening has you so frightened should be doing much more to reassure you than it currently is. For another, you seem to be under the impression that I’m not already intimately aware of the sort of person you really are.”

There were a lot of things Martin was, so few of them good. He swallowed. “What do you mean?”

“You are fretful, needy, belligerently possessive, and suffer a martyrdom complex that is in equal measures infuriating and inspiring. Among other things.”

Suffer a _martyrdom complex?_ Martin smacked his chest. “Hypocrite.”

Jon smiled, but quickly sobered. “I know who you are, Martin. You haven’t lied to me. You haven't tricked me into thinking I’m marrying someone else. I want to be with _you_.” Jon pressed their foreheads together, his breath warming Martin’s lips. “But, if you’re _so_ convinced you’re going to turn into a monster, well," a chuckle, and it trembled, "you may as well marry another monster, right?”

Is this what a frog feels like when it's flayed open on the dissection table, ugly guts spilling out onto the cold, metal tray? Is this what it's like to be _seen?_ Not in the way Elias had seen him, with eyes black as coal as they violated his mind, rooting around for weaknesses that could be used to hurt him.

Jon saw his weaknesses, and his eyes were like melting chocolate; he only held him closer.

Martin closed the distance between them, sliding his lips over Jon’s with a ferocity that took even him by surprise. Jon stiffened, and Martin was about to back away and apologize, but Jon just smiled into the kiss, nipping Martin's lips. 

A tremor wriggled across Martin’s skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake, until his legs trembled so badly, he had to clutch Jon’s jumper to stay upright. The ring dug into the skin between his fingers. Physical, irrefutable evidence that Jon had picked him. That he was Jon’s. Jon was _his_.

He pulled back before his fangs could cut through Jon’s bottom lip. He breathed, trying to slow his thundering heart.

“Is everything alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. I just, um,” he shook himself, the swollen red of Jon’s lips distracting him, “if you still want to do this whole thrall thing …” 

“Yes. _Yes_ , absolutely.” Jon let out a long, slow breath, smiling weakly. “I am so incredibly happy to hear you say that.” He pressed his lips over Martin’s again and then flinched back. “Oh.”

Martin’s stomach squirmed. He would have rather avoided Jon noticing the whole elongated canine teeth thing entirely. God, he hoped it didn’t make kissing difficult. He really liked kissing Jon. “Yeah.”

Instead of recoiling, however, Jon leaned forward. He touched Martin’s jaw with two fingers and tilted up his head.

“Can I see them?”

Martin's heart fluttered, equal parts apprehensive and, strangely, flattered. What didn't draw the attention of that insatiable curiosity, though? Still, Martin opened his mouth, baring his fangs for all the world to see. Brushing a thumb along his bottom lip, Jon traced the leftmost fang with the tip of his finger, and Martin shivered.

“Fascinating.” Jon took his hand out of Martin’s mouth, Martin almost mourning the loss, before he lowered it to his shoulder. “How do we proceed?”

That ... was a great question, in fact. For all that Elias and the Eye seemed determined to push them down this path, their instructions had been frustratingly vague. Although, what else was new?

_Bite to claim._

Martin held up his hand. The ring glittered attractively underneath the kitchen light.

“I think I have an idea of how it works,” he said. “But, uh, maybe we should go sit down somewhere? I don’t want you to get dizzy and crack your head open or something.”

Jon laughed. “Yes, that would be a disappointing way to end things.”

Taking his hand, Jon led them to the back of his flat. Martin didn’t get to see the inside of Jon’s bedroom often, as Jon usually preferred spending nights at Martin’s, even though Jon had the bigger bed. Martin’s sheets were softer, he said, and left it at that.

Jon sat, but Martin remained standing, wringing his hands.

There were just _so_ many ways this could go wrong, in ways they couldn't predict, and some that they could. Marriage, at least, had divorce; who knows how this thrall thing worked? What if it couldn’t be undone?

“And you’re _sure_ about this?”

“Yes, Martin, please,” Jon said, bracing his hands on his knees. “I’ve already asked you to marry me. This is asking you out on a lunch date in comparison.”

“Oh, yes, supernatural bonding rituals and getting pastries. Completely the same thing."

But he sat down on the mattress. He's given Jon chance after chance and the man had stayed determined. Martin was just going to have to trust that Jon knew what he was doing.

Taking a deep breath, he placed his hands on Jon’s shoulders, rubbing his thumbs across his clavicles. Jon moved closer, their hips brushing one another. Heart pounding, he leaned in until his cheek grazed the corner of Jon's jaw, breathing in his calming, familiar scent.

Jon took his elbow, nuzzling his hair. The muscles in his neck strained as he held out his chin.

Martin backed away again.

“Actually, can we lay down?”

Jon’s brow quirked, but he otherwise turned over and flopped onto his side without comment. Martin shimmied up behind him, grabbing a pillow and pushing it under Jon’s head.

“Hey—”

“Shush.”

Wrapping his arms around Jon’s chest, he buried his nose into his hair. Their legs had fallen together, entangled, and Jon radiated heat like an electric blanket, warming the front of Martin’s body. Yes. This was much better.

He dropped a kiss behind Jon’s ear, then one on the back of his neck, before hiding his face in Jon’s shoulder.

“This isn’t a brand. I know what Elias said, but this isn’t that, okay?”

Jon felt around for Martin’s hand, and, when he found it, squeezed.

Martin pulled down the neck of Jon’s jumper. The bruise from the previous bite had faded by now but his heart panged with guilt, something that would likely shadow him until the end of time, and he would deserve it if it did.

He took a deep breath. It wasn't like that this time. Jon was giving this to him, freely. Giving himself to Martin, despite everything, and Martin could only hope he could give himself back, in whatever way he could. A _partnership_. 

Without giving himself time to overthink it, he bit down, no harder than if he was biting into an apple. Jon hissed, and Martin pulled back, blood welling up in the puncture marks.

“Alright?”

Jon’s lips were tight, eyes screwed shut, but he nodded. “No worse than a tetanus shot. Did it work?”

“I'm not sure.” Martin licked the blood away. Two clear white marks were left in the wake of his tongue, perfectly spaced. A powerful thrill lurched deep in his belly at the sight, his heart racing and stomach warming. The intensity of it all took him aback, and he shakily cleared his throat.

“Okay. I’m, uh, going to drink your blood now?”

Jon closed his eyes. Martin leaned in, pressing his lips around the bite.

Martin drank, and sucked in a sharp breath through his nose.

The difference was staggering. It was like taking his first sip of fresh water when, before, he had only ever consumed dust and dirt. He tightened his arms around Jon, and Jon gasped.

Martin stopped.

“It’s fine,” Jon whispered. "Keep going."

It only took a few more swallows, though, before Martin felt satiated and he pulled away with a gasping breath.

“Christ,” Martin said. “Yeah, I, uh, think that did the trick.”

Jon hummed and Martin lifted his eyebrows.

“Jon?”

Jon’s eyes fluttered open, his pupils blown so wide that his irises were almost pitch black. A deep blush had crept up his neck and was beginning to stain his cheeks.

Oh. Oh, _hell_. Was he ...?

“Are you okay?" Martin asked. "You look …” Oh, how to say it without _saying_ it? “You kind of look like you, uh, enjoyed yourself.”

“Do I?”

Martin rubbed the spot just below the bite, where Jon's neck met his shoulder, and Jon jolted, arching into the touch. A low moan rumbled in his chest.

Oh, my God.

Jon’s fingers tangled in the bed sheets, his chest stuttering with shallow breaths. Martin moved his hand to Jon’s back and Jon stretched with his entire body, down to his toes, curving his back into Martin's front and what the hell, _what_ the _hell_ , _what the hell, Jon?_

Gently rolling him onto his stomach, Jon complied without even a token struggle, his body like clay under Martin's hands. Would every blood drinking be like this? God, what if it was? Martin didn’t think he could handle it. But, well, perhaps he wouldn't mind it all that much, either. It was ... nice, to see Jon like this. Relaxed. Tranquil.

Oh, what Martin wouldn’t give to have a small plate of fruit and cheese right now. He imagined pressing a grape to Jon’s soft lips and the way they would part, all the while Jon stared up at him with those sleepy eyes, blinking slowly and, _ah_ , okay, stop that, stop it now.

Brimming with flustered energy, Martin rubbed small circles into Jon’s back, alternating between the flats of his fingers and the base of his palm. That seemed to do Jon in completely as he sank into the mattress, burying his face into his pillow with a sigh of absolute satisfaction. Martin drunk it all in, the sight as nourishing as the blood he had consumed just moments ago.

Disquiet started settling in. This was veering awfully close to voyeuristic, wasn’t it? It was just so … _obscene_ , which isn’t a word Martin would have ever thought to apply to Jon. Elegant. Reserved. Adorable, definitely, but Jon would die before he'd let Martin say it. Would he want Martin to see him like this? Was it right of him to be enjoying this when Jon was so clearly vulnerable?

Martin began to pull back. Jon’s hand shot out and grabbed his wrist and Martin yelped.

“Where are you going?”

“ _Nowhere_ ,” Martin squeaked. Wait, why did he sound so guilty? He was trying to be _gentlemanly_ , for God's sake. But it wasn't his fault when Jon was glaring at him as if he had committed a crime.

Jon eyed him, suspicious, before dropping his head back into the pillow. “Good.” He pushed Martin’s hand into his hair. “Because I believe you were in the middle of something.”

Bewildered, Martin stroked a path through Jon’s disheveled hair, just barely scratching with his nails, the way Jon liked it. Jon’s eyes fluttered shut, his body curling into the mattress in a distractingly enticing manner, and, yes, okay, they would most _definitely_ be having a talk about this later.

By the time Jon arose from his stupor, the sun had long since set. Martin had barely noticed, having no difficulty seeing through the darkness. How useful. Jon’s eyes, having returned to their normal state, blinked open.

“Um," Martin started, licking his lips. "Do you want to talk about, uh …”

“What?”

Martin’s eyes flicked to Jon’s lower body before he could stop himself, face impossibly hot.

“Oh.” And Jon’s face warmed as well. “Yes, that was certainly, uh, unexpected.”

“Are you alright?”

“I feel amazing, actually."

Martin sighed, bone deep relief effusing his chest. It would have killed him if the blood drinking had hurt Jon any more than it already had. "Well, that's good."

"Yes. I feel _well-rested_ , of all things." Jon brought a hand to his chin, thoughtful, and Martin could guess what was turning in that wild brain of his.

“I’m not going to let you replace sleep with vampire bites, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Spoilsport. Fine.” With a grunt, he threw his hands over his head and stretched, a sliver of his belly peaking out underneath the hem of his shirt, and would someone out there _please_ give Martin a break, already? “I could use something to eat, though.”

“Oh. Uh, want me to cook up that steak?”

“The blood experiment steak?” Rolling onto his back, Jon twisted his nose. “I’d rather you didn’t.”

“Well, I’m sorry, Mr. Fussypants, but that steak was £7 and you’re going to eat it, eventually.”

Jon groaned, and Martin patted his shoulder, because indulging Jon's theatrics was just part of the job.

“Actually,” Martin said. “Why don’t we go out? You know,” dropping his chin on Jon’s chest, he wiggled his newly adorned left hand, “celebrate the engagement.”

“Are you sure? You can’t even eat.”

“That’s okay. You’ll just have to eat enough for the both of us.”

“Oh, of _course_. This was your plan all along, wasn’t it?”

Martin held up his hands. “Yes, you caught me. I turned myself into a vampire to guilt you into eating more than a single unsalted saltine cracker a day.”

“Are you sure you’re not an avatar for the Web?” Martin made a face, and Jon finally broke, pushing himself up onto his elbows for a quick kiss. “Fine, yes, I will go along with your nonsensical plan, but I do so with great reluctance.”

“That’s the spirit.”

Martin stepped outside and it felt like walking onto an alien planet. Things _looked_ the same. They _seemed_ familiar. It was all just ... _more._

A bird flew from its nest, and Martin could pick out each individual feather outlined on it's wings. Across the park, an old man was breathing heavily as he clambered up a fire escape, metal tools jingling on his work belt. A few miles down the road, in a flat just above the butchery, a woman was setting out her casserole near the windowsill. Martin crinkled his nose. She had used far too much dill.

“Are you— _Ah!_ ”

Martin turned to Jon, who had flinched away.

“What is it?”

Reaching into his satchel, Jon pulled out a small mirror. Martin opened it and nearly jumped himself. His pupils had dilated to the point his eyes were nearly completely black, save for a thin white ring around the edges.

“Well,” said Jon, “that’s spooky.”

“Wait, I think I can fix this.”

Closing his eyes, Martin took a deep breath, and focused on his breathing. The scents dulled, and the noises faded until the only thing he could hear was his and Jon's heartbeat. When he opened his eyes again, they had returned to their normal colour.

That had been one of the few, useful tricks he had learned during his time spent with Peter Lukas, as it had gotten him through some of the worst days of Jon's ... absence. It was disorienting, though, to have to throw a blanket over his newly heightened senses like that. Like he was walking in the rain with sunglasses and his nose plugged.

Well, with any luck, he'll learn to control it better, in time. He wasn't about to frighten other pedestrians with his demon eyes in the meantime, though.

“Much better,” Jon said, taking back the mirror. Narrowing his eyes, he held it up, craning his neck. The bite marks glimmered almost silver in the moonlight. “That’s interesting.”

"Oh." Martin braced himself. “Good interesting?”

Closing the mirror with a snap, Jon stowed it away. “I think it’s quite fetching, actually.” He held out his arm. “Come on, I’m starving.”

With a relieved breath, Martin wrapped a hand around Jon's proffered elbow and they walked, shoes splashing in the street puddles as they skirted the park border.

“Here?” Jon said, gesturing a kebab vendor on the upcoming corner-block.

“What?” Martin twisted his nose. “No, we should go somewhere nice. You only have your first engagement dinner once.”

“I refuse to spend money on fine dining when my partner can’t even join me in the experience.” Jon was already walking towards the stand and Martin was helplessly dragged along. “Besides, kebabs are walking food, and I want to take a stroll through the park.” He turned to Martin. “With my fiancé.”

 _Fiancé_. Oh, he liked the sound of that so much. Jon pulled him the rest of the way without further complaint.

They got in line. The smell of the kebabs sizzling on the grill nearly overpowered him, and it really sunk in for the first time that he wouldn't get to enjoy any of his favourite foods anymore. Maybe never again. Did that include alcohol? Oh, hell, he _hoped_ it didn't include alcohol. How was he expected to get through the nightmare that was the Magnus Institute without Friday night wine with Jon?

If Jon got drunk, and if Martin drank his blood after that, would that get Martin drunk, too?

Hmm.

“Blackwood-Sims.”

Martin blinked. “What?”

Jon was reaching into his wallet. “What do you think? Jonathan Blackwood-Sims.”

“Oh.”

 _Oh_ , as if that sentence wasn't responsible for the absolute devastation that was taking place in his internal organs. Christ, Jon can't just _say_ something like that! Like it was this casual thing!

Could he?

Jon's lips quirked, and Martin wondered if he had pulled that little sneak attack on purpose. His exasperation was overwhelmed by the butterflies ravaging his stomach.

“You’d really put my last name first?”

“Of course. One grilled veggie skewer, please,” he said to the vendor before turning back to Martin. “For sentimental reasons, but I also think it rolls off the tongue easier. _Sims-Blackwood_. Just doesn’t have the same feel. Plus, there's alphabetical order to consider.”

“Yeah, um, I think it sounds pretty good.”

It sounded bloody _magical_ is what it sounded like.

The vendor handed Jon his order. Taking Martin’s arm, Jon led them both in the direction of the park, down the cobblestone trail. The fairy lights wrapped around the tree trunks lit the the path ahead of them, and far out on the pond, the ducks quacked. The only other sound was the wind jostling the yellowing leaves.

“We need to go ring shopping,” said Martin. “Get one for you, too.”

No response. Martin looked over. Jon stared at one of the rowdier ducks as he nibbled on a bell pepper. The tips of his ears were red.

“You don't think I'd look silly wearing a ring?"

“I think you'd look rather dashing, actually.” Martin held up Jon’s hand, envisioning a glint of gold adorning his left ring finger. Or maybe silver, make it a matching set. Ah, he’d need to start thinking of inscriptions. How was he going to fit _How Do I Love Thee?_ on the inside of a ring ...? “But, you know, you could wear it like a necklace. _Oh_ , and we get to start _wedding planning_.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Why not?”

“Who would we even invite?”

Martin glared. That was just playing dirty. “Daisy would probably come.” He lowered his chin. “And Basira.” He scrubbed a hand over his jaw and then sighed. “Okay, fine, courthouse wedding. But I want to splurge on the honeymoon. Let’s go to Florida.”

“Why on Earth would you want to go to a place like that?”

“I’ve heard rumours about this sun thing, want to check it out for myself.” Martin raised a brow. “Although, apparently there’s been some debate as to whether it will be making an appearance at all tomorrow.”

Jon kissed his teeth and looked away, a flush creeping up his neck. “You’re the one always telling me I should be more romantic.”

“Well,” Martin pressed his cheek into Jon’s bony shoulder, “I suppose it did the trick well enough, didn’t it?”

Jon smiled, the fairy lights twinkling in his eyes, and Martin's chest swelled with love and adoration for this ridiculous man.

Then, Jon's eyes lost focus. His face paled.

He shoved Martin off the path, nearly knocking him off his feet. There was a whooshing noise, followed by a wet, meaty impact that sounded too much like a butcher slapping a hunk of flesh on the chopping table.

Martin looked up.

A twisted, metal stake, wet with blood, stuck out from Jon's shoulder, and Martin's world went cold.


	7. Chapter 7

The stake had torn clean through Jon’s shoulder, blood dripping onto the stone pathway. He had dropped his kebab on the ground and Martin stared. That had been expensive. What was Jon supposed to have for dinner now?

Jon grabbed the loose cloth of his sleeve and hauled him forward. Another stake whistled past Martin’s ear, the wind rustling his hair. A gushing of blood flowed out of Jon’s wound at his sudden movement, further staining his coat. Martin loved that coat.

A sharp pain pricked in his arm. Jon was digging his fingernails into his bicep.

“ _Move!_ ”

It sunk in.

Someone was trying to kill them.

Someone was trying to kill them, and all Martin could do was _stand there_ and stare at Jon’s bleeding shoulder.

_Move, you idiot!_

Legs shaking, he forced himself to take one step, and then another, until Jon was able to tug them into a shambling sprint. The hair on the back of his neck stood on its end, and Martin chanced a glance behind them.

On the opposite end of the park, crouched on a ramshackle fire escape, a man was straightening up. Old bloodstains tarnished his ratty coat, and his silvering hair and the lines on his face marked him for his advanced age.

In his hands was an actual goddamn _crossbow_ , and he was loading it with another corkscrew metal stake from the collection on his belt. Their eyes locked and Martin’s skin erupted with gooseflesh. He used to have a cat when he had been a child, and she'd had that same look in her eyes when she prowled around the garden for lunch.

Martin tripped over a fallen branch, just barely catching himself, and Jon pulled them out of the warm glow of the park and onto the street, the asphalt clicking under their heels as they ran into a darkened alley. They dodged around piles of rubbish and debris as the lights fell further and further behind them.

“Jon, what’s happening?”

“It’s Trevor.”

“Tre— _what?_ Trevor _Herbert_? The _vampire hunter_?”

Jon nodded, distracted as he looked around the clearing. With a quick gesture, he led them around a shuttered building and tried the door, but it wrenched uselessly against an inner lock. Swearing, Jon turned to Martin.

“Open this.”

“What?”

“ _Open it_.”

Flustered, Martin yanked the door and it burst open, pieces of the lock tumbling onto the pavement.

He stared down at his hands. How …?

Jon glanced up at him, as if he were just as startled, but he quickly recovered and shoved the door open, pulling Martin by his sleeve into the shadows.

Damp leaves were scattered around the vinyl tiled floor and Martin nearly slipped on one. Rusty lockers hugged the walls and a tatty banner with a picture of a lion adorned the space overhead, half chewed away by moths.

Tightening the grip on his arm, Jon tore through the long hallway, turning corner after corner before they stumbled over the front entryway, and he dragged them under a staircase. Jon’s chest heaved, struggling to catch his breath. Martin combed a frazzled hand through his hair.

“I thought that guy died, like, ages ago.”

“Nope.” Jon prodded the metal sticking out of his shoulder and Martin’s stomach lurched. “Do you remember when I was in America?”

“ _America?_ ”

“I may have done something there to make him and his partner _very_ angry.”

Far away, the hinges of a rusted door screeched open. Leaves swished across the floor as something cut a steady path through them.

With a grunt, Jon ripped the stake out of his shoulder, a horrifying amount of blood splashing onto the ground.

“ _Jon—_ ”

“It’s fine, it’ll heal.”

Taking his hand, Jon led him to one of the classrooms, the door squeaking as he pushed Martin inside.

“I’ll distract him. Wait here until it’s safe.”

“What? _No_ , we need to stay together—”

“Don’t argue, we don’t have time.” Jon kissed him before backing away. “Stay here. I’ll come back.”

Martin tried to protest but Jon was already running, clutching the stake in a white-knuckled grip. It dripped blood onto the floor all the while, making for an obvious trail. Martin reached out a hand, warring with the urge to run after Jon or hide from the unrelenting force coming towards him.

God, why did Jon have to be so _stupid?_ Everyone knows you didn’t split up when a monster’s chasing you! _Martyrdom complex_. Ugh.

The smell of cigarettes and sweat prickled Martin’s nose. Heart pounding, Martin scurried into the classroom and scrambled under the teacher’s desk. A moment later, soft footfalls echoed around the vacuous space of the entry hall, far too quiet for a tall man carrying such a large crossbow and God knew what else.

The footsteps paused and Martin pressed a hand over his mouth, begging his breathing to slow. Outside, he could hear a rival heartbeat, calm and even in sharp contrast to his own.

Something swept across the floor, leaves crunching under a firm heel, and there was clicking sound, like a winding music box. Martin buried his face in his knees. Just _leave_ , already. The sooner he left the sooner Martin could go and find Jon and they could get out of here.

The door creaked open.

“Lose your little Archivist, did you?”

His sweaty palm muffled his gasp.

Something stepped into the room. Metal objects clinked together, and Martin could see in his mind the twisted stakes on his belt. Weapons he intended to use to rip him and Jon to shreds. He curled into a tight ball in the small corner of his hiding place.

“Found the one that got you, you know. Went down easy. You’re welcome. Told me all about you.”

A desk screeched, somewhere to his left. Was he circling the room?

As quiet as he was able, Martin moved to the rightmost side, eyeing the door closest to him. Did he try and wait him out? It was only a matter of time before the hunter checked under the desk, though. God, why did he have to pick such a shitty spot to hide?

There was the sound of a taut wire being dragged back and Martin’s pulse hammered in his throat.

“You should start running. Be a real shame to kill you here.”

A stake pierced through the desk, slicing the flesh of Martin’s ear.

“But I will if I have to.”

Martin darted out of the room, clutching his bleeding ear, and sprinted down the hallway. A door slammed open and Martin could hear the jingling metal, like a little bell on a cat’s collar, behind him.

“You bloody vampires. I turn my back for one second and you all come scurrying out of the woodworks like cockroaches.”

Another stake whizzed past him, just barely missing his left elbow, and he ducked into the first door to his right.

It was a music room, and, in his panic, he tripped over an old drum set, cymbals crashing on the ground. Shoving them away, he got to his feet before a stake stabbed the floor where his heel had been.

“I suppose I’m not complaining,” said Trevor as he sauntered over to yank the stake out. “Almost getting nostalgic.”

Martin burst into the next hallway. Exit, exit, where was an exit, he needed an _exit._ Another stake shot past his knee and lodged into the wall opposite. How was such an old man able to keep pace with him? At least he was a bad shot.

He tried another door, this one leading to the gymnasium. There, at the other end of the court was a pair of double doors with a long dead emergency exit sign above it. Finally. This way, he could lead them both away from the school, away from Jon.

His shoes squeaked over the glossy hardwood floors. Something whooshed through the air and against his better judgement, he turned. A glass bottle was sailing over his head and when it hit the door, the whole thing burst into flames.

“Leaving so soon?”

The sharp smell of gasoline assaulted his nose and he could have screamed. A _Molotov cocktail?_ Are you _joking?_

Martin turned, and Trevor already had his crossbow loaded and aimed. Martin threw up his hands.

“Look, I know vampires are, like, really, really evil, usually, but _I’m_ not going to hurt anyone. You don’t have to do this.”

“Oh, one of the good ones, I suppose? And I’m just supposed to take your word for it?”

He supposed the man had a point, but that didn’t mean Martin had to take it lying down. Summoning his resolve, he said, voice imbued with purpose, “ _Please_ stop.”

For a moment, Martin thought it worked. Trevor’s pupils dilated, his crossbow lowering just a fraction. Then, a stake sliced through Martin’s arm, blood flecking the gymnasium floor. Martin gasped, clutching the wound. _Shit_ , that _hurt._

“You can’t use your wiles on me, vampire.”

Martin ran, shoes smearing blood out the door and into the hallway.

They had made it back to that first entryway. If he went up the stairs, maybe he could lose him on the second floor? The hunter couldn’t keep pace with him forever.

He sprinted towards it, fingers brushing the balustrade when something hit him squarely in the legs and he crashed to the ground, head cracking on the floor. He tried to get up, but his legs were tangled up a thick rope. A bolas, with polo balls for weights.

You’ve got to be _fucking kidding me._

He kicked against the rope, trying to rip it apart with his hands, but the material was too dense. By the time he wriggled out of it and pushed it away, a single, steel-toed boot kicked him onto his back and Trevor fired a stake straight through the flesh of his side where it drilled into the floor. Martin’s scream echoed down the hallway.

“That’s right. Make all the noise you want.” Trevor withdrew a stake from his belt. A tired but satisfied smile twisted his lips. “You think he can see us? Your Archivist? I hope he does.”

Tears slid down Martin’s cheek.

“Please,” he whimpered as Trevor reeled back the wire, “don’t hurt him.”

Trevor’s lips bent with disgust. “Die with a little dignity, vampire.” He raised his crossbow, finger hovering over the trigger. Martin struggled, his side throbbing as he pulled weakly at the stake, but it was useless. He looked away, squeezing his hand into a fist, the ring pressing an indent into his fingers.

But the bolt didn’t come. Slowly, he cracked open one eye. Trevor wasn’t even looking at him. The crossbow was still aimed at Martin's head, but he was glancing out of the corner of his eyes.

Head dizzy with pain, Martin lifted his head an inch. His heart stopped.

Jon was there. He was charging towards them, eyes blazing, still grasping the bloody stake.

A smile curled Trevor’s lips and Martin’s blood turned to ice.

“ _Jon_ —”

But Jon’s foot came down in a pile of leaves and debris and the bear trap triggered, sinking its teeth in the flesh of Jon’s ankle, and Jon crashed to the ground with a shout. Like dancing to music, Trevor turned and fired. The stake pierced straight through Jon’s hand, pinning him to the ground, and Jon screamed.

“Missed that one, Archivist?” said Trevor. He smiled down at Martin. “You’ve been a good boy. Earned yourself a little treat. Watch closely.”

With a kick to the wound in Martin’s side, eliciting a broken cry, he turned towards Jon and Martin finally realized that Trevor hadn’t been a bad shot.

Martin had been _corralled_.

“It’s my lucky night,” said Trevor as he approached Jon, a swagger to his gait. “Bagging two monsters for the price of one. Julia’s going to be sad she missed this."

Jon tried to scramble away, the chains of the bear trap clattering on the ground, but he hollered as the meat of his hand tugged against the stake. A sheen of sweat had broken out on his forehead. 

“Just let him go,” said Jon, voice strained. “You can do whatever you want with me but let him go.”

“Oh, you are an egotistical one, aren’t you?” Trevor lifted his weapon. “I’m here for the vampire, lad. You’re just the bonus prize.”

The stake in Martin's side ripped through his skin as he lunged.

By the time Trevor turned, Martin had already sunk his teeth into his throat, and they both hurtled to the ground. With a flick of his head, Martin came away with a hunk of flesh clamped in his jaw, metallic taste filling his mouth.

Trevor didn’t make a sound, face a frozen mask of surprise.

Martin went to Jon, grabbing the bear trap by the hinges and pulling it apart. It shattered to pieces. Gently taking Jon’s punctured hand, he pulled the stake out of the floor and Jon gasped. His eyes were wide as they stared up at him, staring at the wound in his side, before flicking to Trevor. A basin of blood was pooling around the still body.

Martin cooled at the sight. He wiped his chin and stared at his hand, drenched in blood.

An alarm. Water, brackish and cloudy, sprung from the sprinklers, snapping Martin out of his stupor.

“What’s happened?” Jon asked, staring up at the ceiling.

Jon’s hand was still gushing blood. Ripping his own sleeve, Martin took back his hand and wrapped the cloth around the wound. Just because Jon had supernatural healing nonsense didn’t mean that they should be careless.

“Crazy bastard set the gymnasium on fire,” Martin said, tying the makeshift bandage with a gentle squeeze. Jon winced.

“Did he, now?” Jon turned back to the body. "Perfect. And now his partner is sure to come after us, as well. I suppose we have that to look forward to."

Satisfied that Jon was no longer in immediate danger, Martin shoved his shoulder, hard, earning himself a bewildered look.

"What were you _thinking?_ " Martin snapped. "Charging off on your own like that?"

"I thought he was after me. I was trying to draw him away from you."

"Yes, as if the _vampire hunter_ wouldn't be targeting the _vampire_." Martin smacked him again, more gently this time, but Jon smacked him back.

"Fine, I apologize for being _heroic._ I certainly won't be doing it again if _this_ is my thanks."

"See that you don't. Had you pegged, though, didn't he? You are pretty egotistical."

Jon opened his mouth for what was surely a sharp retort, before slowly closing it again.

"I don't appreciate your tone."

Martin laughed, and it was only a little bit pathetic. "Let's just get out of here."

Jon tried to stand, and his leg buckled. Carefully, Martin helped Jon rise to his feet, wrapping Jon’s arm around his shoulder and bracing most of their weight as they staggered out of the building. Blood gushed out of his side. What a waste.

They were nearly a block away before they heard sirens.

There was a letter waiting for them as they stumbled, bloodied and bruised, back onto Jon’s doorstep. There was a small fruit basket as well.

_The Magnus Institute would like to remind its employees that hazards experienced outside of the workplace are not the responsibility of upper management. If you have any complaints regarding harassment you’ve experienced as a result of your employment at the Institute, please seek HR for resources. Should you utilize these resources, please do so on your own time._

_Congratulations on the engagement._

_-E. Bouchard_

Martin snorted. He hadn’t thought it was possible for Elias to be any more of a smug bastard than he already was, and, yet, here they were.

“What does it say?”

“Oh, you know,” Martin said, handing over the letter to Jon, “just Elias flexing his godly all-seeing eye powers on us. Again.”

Jon’s eyes scanned across the paper, the frown on his face growing deeper. “He knew about Trevor. He knew and he didn’t _tell_ us?”

“I’m sure he had his reasons.” Martin scooped up the basket, picking through the apples and pears. The arrangement wasn’t half bad, which only made it more infuriating. “His conniving, scheming, evil reasons.”

Jon crumpled the paper into a tight ball and pulled his key out of his pocket, battling with the lock.

“Let’s take the day off tomorrow.”

Martin’s eyebrows shot up his forehead. “What? Seriously?”

“Absolutely.” Jon turned and smiled, and it only made the tired lines on his face that much more prominent. “After the night we’ve had, I think we deserve a little lie in.”

“I mean, sure, but I don’t think you’ve voluntarily taken a day off in, like, ever.”

“Well, I’ve never had a fiancé that’s needed tending to, before.”

The events of the night before Trevor’s attack came rushing back to him, shrouded in a gossamer blanket of unreality. Jon had proposed. Jon wanted to get married.

They still got to have this.

By the time Martin floated back down to Earth, Jon had bullied the door open and was walking inside.

“Go lay down,” he said over his shoulder. He eyed Martin's side. “I’ll grab the first aid kit.”

One day became two, which slowly morphed into three. Martin would have been happy to have made it an even four, but Jon’s eyes were beginning to dull with the familiar ache of withdrawal. And so, with great reluctance, that morning, they dressed for work.

Martin walked the halls of the Institute, unable able to shake the barely-there edge of existential horror. You’d think he’d be used to people trying to take his life, but apparently not.

Somewhere out there, there was a universe where Trevor had succeeded in killing them, where Jon and Martin had died gruesome deaths and the world looked on with cold indifference as their future together vanished in a puff of smoke, and it chilled him in ways it hadn’t before. They’d had so much more to _lose._

Most of their impromptu vacation was spent lying in bed, clinging to one another, listening to the other’s breathing and heartbeat. Reminding themselves that they were both alive. Such was tradition.

For once, Elias was where Martin expected him to be; in his office, leafing through a large, tattered book. At the sound of the door opening, Elias looked up, and grinned.

“Ah, Martin, just the man I wanted to see,” he said. “Did you enjoy the fruit basket?”

“Oh, yes, sending the guy who can’t eat food anymore a fruit basket. _Real_ smooth.”

“There’s other ways to enjoy food without eating it.” Elias closed the book and slid it back into place, long fingers edging the spine. “Such as feeding it your betrothed in a pseudo post-coital haze. But you wouldn’t know anything about that, right?”

Martin’s face darkened. “Cut that out.”

Elias didn’t respond, pulling another book out of place and flipping through it, before he glanced at Martin out of the corner of his eyes.

“How did he taste?”

Against his will, the memory of Jon’s blood on his tongue and Jon’s docile eyes came flooding back to him. Elias’ eyes glowed, and Martin knew he _saw_ it, and his stomach boiled with anger _._

He took a deep breath.

He wasn’t going to let Elias rile him up, not this time.

“Why didn’t you tell us Trevor was coming after us?”

“Trevor _Herbert_? The _vampire hunter_?” Elias’ lips curled. “I thought he was dead.”

“Could you not do that, for once? Why didn’t you _say_ anything? What happened to all that talk about _grand plans?_ He nearly killed us both.”

“Well, then it’s a good thing you’ve performed so flawlessly.”

“We got _lucky_. If I had known, I could have—”

“Could have done what? No, let me guess.” Elias closed this book with a snap. “So, you could have nobly fled to keep your affianced safe, and then, starved and alone, allow yourself to be picked off like a diseased mongrel.” Tossing the book onto his desk, he twisted his mouth into a sneer. “And then Jon would simply lie down and nothing I did could get him back up again. Trust me, Martin, this is the best possible outcome, both for you and me.”

Martin stared at the book, mind racing for responses and failing to come up with anything. Martin _would_ have left; that’s half the reason he had been so angry, was because his very presence had thrown Jon in the crossfire and he could have avoided that.

But the state he’d been in before he made Jon his thrall …

Trevor would have had no problem finishing him off.

“Did you plan all of this?

Elias sat at his desk, one eyebrow lifted. “Are you asking me if I orchestrated a vampire jumping you in a dark alley and draining your blood to, as I have already elaborated, an impossibly precise measurement and putting all my plans at risk all so that I could eliminate one tramp?”

Just going by his tone, Martin was tempted to say no, but it was so hard to get a proper read on Elias even at the best of times.

Elias smiled. “You flatter me. No, Martin, this was only ever going to end one way when that vampire chose you as it’s meal. I was just making the best of the situation I found myself in. The fact that one more threat to the Institute has been neutralized is merely a perk. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

He gestured towards the door of his office, almost shooing him. Martin bristled.

“I don’t think this is all going to end the way you want it to.”

“And why do you think that?”

“You really don’t see a problem with Jon having a powerful vampire at his beck and call?”

Elias’ eyes bored holes into his skull. “Is that how you see yourself?”

Martin didn’t look away and, for just a moment, that infernal smile twitched.

“Well,” Elias said. “We’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we? Now, would you please leave me to my work? You _know_ how busy my schedule is.”

With nothing else to say, Martin allowed himself to be dismissed. He stalked down the hallway, unsure if the exchange had been a victory for him or not. He stewed over it until he Jon’s voice floated towards him as he spoke into a tape recorder.

“…impossible to say for certain the fate of her father, but I suppose Miss Roberts can rest easy knowing she’s beyond his reach now.”

Martin peeked into the doorway. Jon’s brow was furrowed in concentration as he toyed with the silver chain looped around his neck.

“Basira hadn’t been able to discover what happened to the Smithson woman, but I hope she and Miss Roberts were reunited, in the end. They’ve suffered enough.” Opening his hand, he stared down at the platinum ring cradled in his palm. The corners of his mouth were soft. “Recording ends.”

Jon clicked off the tape recorder and lowered his head, rubbing the tense spot between his eye sockets. As if sensing him, his head snapped up, and then he relaxed just as quickly, his cold eyes warming. Martin’s breath caught in his chest.

“Everything alright?” Jon asked.

“Yeah,” said Martin. It frightened him, sometimes, the intensity this man made him feel. “Want to stop Tesco on the way home? I was thinking of making stir-fry.”

“I’d hardly expect you to cook when you can’t even eat.”

“I know.” Walking over, Martin pressed a light kiss over Jon’s mouth. “I just like taking care of my future husband.”

Jon’s face went red, and Martin revelled in it. See how it feels, Jon? _See how it feels?_

“I’ll let you get back to it,” he continued. “Be ready to go home on time today, okay?”

“Yes, dear,” Jon said, with the barest hint of an eyeroll. Martin glared, stealing one more kiss for his troubles, before leaving Jon to the statements crowding his desk.

He returned to his own desk, the reports he had been in the middle of working on last week staring up at him. It felt like an eternity ago by now. Literally a different life, and he wasn’t sure if he should mourn its loss. Many of the changes, at least, had been good ones.

It was true that he couldn’t enjoy his own cooking with Jon anymore, split a slice of cake or a milkshake, and he would always feel just a little bit too cold, and he’d have to spend the rest of his life glutting on blood like a parasite, but …

He touched his jaw. The weapon he used to take an old man’s life, blood gurgling from the torn-out throat. The image had played again and again in his mind, dreamlike and surreal, and it wasn’t long before he recognized the feeling that coiled deep in his chest.

Satisfaction.

Perhaps Elias was right and maybe this was the best outcome after all. He’d always been willing to do anything to protect Jon, that was nothing new. But now he had the power to back it up.

Only time would tell who lived to regret it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! The response has been amazing.


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